


The Inarguable Consequences

by SyntheticEuphoria



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angry Sex, Community: tf_kinkmeme, Kink Meme, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticEuphoria/pseuds/SyntheticEuphoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wheeljack would like to do Science. Prowl would like to NOT have the Ark explode. This may cause a few problems...</p><p>Warnings for Sticky Sex and Mildly Dubious Consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Metren = 1/2 ft. (15cm); approximately equivalent to an inch (2.5cm) for Cybertronians  
> Vorn = Approximately 83 Earth years  
> Megacycle = 1 hour  
> Cycle = 1 minute  
> (Please to be excusing the clearly fake techno-speak in the first chapter.)

It was going to be wonderful – fantastic, stupendous, GLORIOUS! – as soon as he got to build it. His newest idea, which happened to be for a new kind of energy-converter, would be able to replace the one currently running power through the _Ark_ , and cut the amount of resources they used by half! 

Well, that was being optimistic. At the very least, by one quarter; either way, it would save energy that they could use on other things… like new projects for the Science Team. Now, all Wheeljack needed was to get approval for this little invention, and he could begin right away. Unfortunately, Prowl didn’t like the fact that a few of the components were… slightly less than stable.

“I _told_ you, though! The tridinium-phosphate would be encapsulated within a three-metren-thick shell of gold-titanium alloy. It’s all right there,” the inventor added emphasis by jabbing his finger at the section of datapad lying on the desk containing the mentioned information, “in my report; nothing to worry about at all!”

There was the merest twitch of Prowl’s left doorwing, the only thing which belied his irritation at the fact that Wheeljack was leaning over his desk in his enthusiasm, hovering just above him. “And must I remind you about the _last_ time you said that there was ‘nothing to worry about’? I hate to bring up past failures to make a point, ‘Jack, but-…”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” he cut in. “You know perfectly well that it only exploded because Skywarp decided to teleport on top of the thing. I don’t think I even _want_ to know why he thought dumping that bucket of water on the circuitry was a good idea; Megatron _had_ wanted to steal it, after all.”

One optic ridge arched up. “Delicate circuitry which I _believe_ was supposed to have been secured in an air-tight compartment, as per your blueprints…?”

Wheeljack paused for a moment, then puffed up in indignation. “Excuse me for forgetting a few details when I’m building something in the middle of a fire-fight! It shouldn’t have even been necessary. If it wasn’t for that… that _Seeker_ , we’d’ve been just fine!”

“Regardless, I am going to have to veto this plan of yours. That substance is far too volatile to even risk having in its active form on-base. Even if you think that you will be taking the necessary precautions.” The fact that this was Wheeljack, and something almost always went wrong when he was involved, would remain unsaid, if only because it would be rude to mention.

“But _Prowl_ , it won’t even be _active_ until it’s already shelled!”

“No, ‘Jack.” He swiveled slightly in his chair, firmly locking his optics onto a datapad he’d been working on prior to the scientist’s entrance, and made a slight gesture towards the door. “I will see you later. Have a nice day.”

Prowl didn’t even look back up for the dismissal – and it was a _clear_ dismissal, in more than one way – prompting Wheeljack to puff up further, faux-wings hiking high behind his shoulders, lips twisting together behind the mask. “Yeah. You, too.” Fists clenched, he resolutely did not storm out of the SIC’s office, instead keeping a steady, practical pace. He even made it mostly down the hall before he had to turn and punch the wall, leaving a good-sized dent before continuing on his way. He’d apologize to Grapple, later.

\--

“So I tell the guy, sittin’ there and starin’ up at me,” there was a short pause for where the story-teller chuckled, “I tell ‘im… ‘Hey, not my fault my brother isn’t into organics.’” At the burst of laughter from the few mechs around him, Sideswipe grinned and turned towards his golden counterpart, _still_ scrubbing at a place on his chest with a polishing cloth. “Come on, Sunshine – you can’t possibly still have a smudge there.”

A venomous look was shot back before Sunstreaker went straight back to work, grumbling not-quite-quietly about greasy humans putting their hands where they didn’t belong. Spike, who was perched on a table with his legs hanging off the edge, knew better than to be offended and laughed right along with the rest of those gathered.

“So then the cops show up, an’-... Hi, Prowl!” Those collected around the red twin turned their heads a bit as he waved. The mech being addressed barely glanced up, offering an exceptionally unenthusiastic nod of greeting in the larger fighter’s direction before continuing on his way to retrieve a cube of basic fuel-grade energon. Not bothered at all by the cold response, Sideswipe eagerly went back to his story, creating a sort of background noise for Prowl to drink his cube to.

It could be relaxing, in a way, hearing the more excitable of their ranks chatter on about daily activities. Even if he didn’t particularly care for the content of the conversations, it allowed Prowl a sense of normalcy, knowing that the troops were comfortable and happy enough to engage one another like that. Plus, it was a definite step up from the potential pranks that would be gotten up to, if Sideswipe _wasn’t_ otherwise occupied.

So the tactician sat down at a relatively out-of-the-way corner, idly sipping at his cube, and half-listened to the various mechs in the room, not all of which were gathered around Sideswipe. He knew that Jazz often did this, too, though he was only pretending to _half_ -listen; that mech could probably absorb verbal information from half a dozen conversations at once, and not get it jumbled up in the slightest. But then, that was part of his job. Prowl, on the other hand, did not need to deal so much with… interpersonal relationships.

And so it was quite by chance that he happened to take note of Wheeljack’s name being mentioned off to one side, where First Aid and Swoop were sitting next to one another. Really, it wouldn’t have registered as anything at all if it hadn’t been for the fact that Wheeljack was the last person he’d directly interacted with prior to coming to the Rec Room. As such, Prowl glanced up, and caught more than a few intact sentences, rather than the broken phrases he normally heard. While his face remained impassive, those very same few sentences caused his doors to slowly flare upwards.

Finishing his cube, he disposed of it and – with all the calmness of the oncoming storm – exited the room.

\--

“Sir, I think that I-…”

“Prowl, I have already said ‘no’ – _twice_. I would appreciate your cooperation with leaving my comm-line open in case of an emergency.”

The line cut out, and one of Prowl’s fists clenched at his side. He was being denied entry into the meeting currently taking place in Optimus Prime’s office. The meeting Wheeljack had requested _despite_ Prowl’s ruling that his project be halted. Apparently, the orders of the Second in Command were not _good enough_ for him. _Apparently_ , the scientist thought that he could go ahead and ignore those very orders, instead running to the one person whose authority trumped Prowl’s own.

Hopefully, Prime would see the same logic that he, himself, had. Unfortunately, the fact that his request to join the meeting had been rejected did not support that hope. Optimus was a wonderful leader, and Prowl loved him for his seemingly boundless compassion and kindness; however, that didn’t always mean he came to logical, _correct_ conclusions.

That meager inkling of hope was at last dashed against the rocks as the door opened and Wheeljack stepped out, a superior twinkle in the optics visible above his facemask. “Hello, Prowl.”

“Hello, Wheeljack. I take it that your meeting went… satisfactorily?” Slowly, he relaxed his fist. His wings remained raised like the hackles of an angry canine, though.

“Oh, yes. Prime rather liked my idea for cutting down energy-consumption.” He calmly shut the door behind him, and started walking. Prowl easily fell into step beside the slightly shorter mech. 

“Were any changes made to your original blueprints that I should be made aware of?”

“It’s now going to be a three- _and-one-half_ metren thick sphere around the tridinium-phosphate, but other than that, no.” An intensely minor change, although it did offer a decent amount of reinforcement, _just in case_.

That didn’t mean Prowl was happy about anything at all in this situation. You’d never have guessed it, if you only heard his voice. “Ah, I see. And I suppose you will be beginning immediately?”

“Sure; as soon as I can gather up the team and get the necessary materials together.” Wheeljack shot the other a sidelong glance. He knew this had to be getting under the other mech’s plating. Their SIC _hated_ to lose – it was part of what made him such an excellent tactical officer, that passion for winning. It was also about the only kind of passion anyone ever saw from the Datsun.

“Very well, then. Have a pleasant day.” Prowl broke off from the path and took a left.

Wheeljack paused a moment to watch the other leave. Wings flared high and wide, arms _very carefully_ kept straight at his sides, gait even more measured than usual – oh yeah, the black and white mech was _pissed_. Behind his mask, the inventor grinned before continuing on his way, a slight saunter to his step as he whistled a merry little tune.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metren = 1/2 ft. (15cm); approximately equivalent to an inch (2.5cm) for Cybertronians  
> Vorn = Approximately 83 Earth years  
> Megacycle = 1 hour  
> Cycle = 1 minute

As it turned out, Wheeljack should have been more worried about the consequences of winning. Whenever Sideswipe initiated one of his prank wars, Prowl had the rules on his side and was relentless in bringing the shenanigans to a halt, punishing the red hellion to the full extent permitted by those same regulations.

Suddenly, the inventor wished he _had_ broken some sort of rule. At least then there would be strict limitations on how he was to be treated; as it was, Prowl had been exacting his vengeance for nearly four days running. Of course, it couldn’t be _proven_ to have been done out of spite, but there was no way that Prowl would be doing this to him unless he was still angry.

Put simply, every single mech in the _Ark_ had certain duties, regardless of what their specialized field was. From the melee fighters to the officers (including Prime) to the science bots, everyone had a place in a rotating duty roster. Normally, these tasks were distributed more-or-less evenly between everyone, and with plenty of time in between to carry out their individual tasks, such as the science-oriented mechs actually doing Science.

Wheeljack had not gotten to do Science in three planetary rotations, twelve megacycles, thirty-two cycles. It was driving him insane.

Now, of course, Prowl was _smart_. He knew better than to simply schedule Wheeljack into the roster with only enough time to recharge and refuel. That would be far too obvious. The same would go for continuously giving him what were considered the least pleasant duties all the time (although, he had been given these more often than _normal_ , he noticed). No, instead Prowl was a conniving, sneaky bastard about it.

_Instead_ , Wheeljack would be scheduled for an out-of-town meeting with the human media (or a school, or _whatever_ ) in the morning, with enough time (barely) to get back and have his mid-day fuel. He would have happily skipped lunch in favor of working on one of his projects, but Ratchet would have had his head for ‘neglecting himself’.

Then he would be sent out for patrol or something else in which he was likely to expend a lot of energy doing. Time would, again, be given to return and refuel. After that, he would normally be free for the rest of the day to work on his True Passion, perhaps relax in the Commons for a few megacycles, and finally retire to his quarters.

However, as stated before, Prowl was a conniving, sneaky, _vindictive_ bastard. No, he was scheduling the _others_ in order to mess with him. He’d rearranged the other Science Team mechs’ schedules so that none of them were around when he was.

Now, it had been a long-standing rule that Wheeljack was not permitted to take on potentially-hazardous tasks without at least one other member of the Team there with him. This was supposedly for his own safety (not to mention the safety of all Autobot kind), and having had his limbs blown off on numerous occasions due to his own actions, he had to admit that this was probably a very good idea, even if it did ruin a lot of his fun. Unfortunately, the inventor had a penchant for turning even minor experiments with perfectly stable chemicals into ship-shaking explosions, so ‘potentially-hazardous tasks’ had been redefined at one point to include anything that required more than a screwdriver, and even then he was to inform someone else that they should have a fire-extinguisher at the ready.

So, as things stood, Wheeljack _could not_ work on his current projects. Though, that didn’t mean Perceptor and the others couldn’t while they were together, so things were still getting done. And really, most mechs would probably consider this a bit of a vacation, but Wheeljack _lived_ for his experiments. They were his passion, his driving force, his One True Love above all else, and without them he was… 

He didn’t want to dwell on that. No, no… better to think of how to fix things, _yes_ …

But how to do so? Prowl, the snide little glitch, would have already thought of every conceivable reason necessary to explain the scheduling in a no-doubt logical way. Logic was, after all, the mech’s specialty. There would be no circumventing the tactician to talk to Prime, this time around, either: Prime approved all schedules before they were published, so Prowl had either already explained the roster to him, or Optimus hadn’t even noticed anything amiss. So perhaps…

Well, there was always the direct approach.

\--

Hm, slightly sweet but with a bite to the aftertaste, leaving an almost pleasant burn down the inside of the throat; a lingering tingle of charge on his glossa, sparking faintly up through the roof of his mouth to his processors; tell-tale lurch of the fuel tank after a few moments, signifying that it was unused to handling this refined of a substance… “Sideswipe, I asked for _mid-grade_ , not high grade.”

“Aw, come on, Prowler! You look like you could use it. You’ve been even grouchier than usual, last few days.” Sideswipe grinned wolfishly, seated directly to the Datsun’s right and leaning in close. “Besides, you _never_ drink high grade.” The red mech took on a suddenly more serious expression. “I mean _ever_. Even if you weren’t bein’ a complete aft, you seriously need to relax more.”

“Did you stop to think that, perhaps, there was a reason that I abstained from drinking high grade?” One optic ridge arched imperiously, the corners of Prowl’s mouth ever-so-slightly turned downwards.

Sideswipe blinked. “Beee-…cause you’re allergic to fun?” he offered.

There was the merest roll of Prowl’s optics, but he looked – possibly; it was hard to tell with how little his expression changed – a little amused. “It is because I have no tolerance. It’s as simple as that.”

The melee fighter sat back, crossing his arms in thought. “So… it wouldn’t take much to get you drunk… right?” He cast a sidelong look at the officer, the glimmerings of mischief present in his optics.

“Don’t even _think_ about it. I am _not_ getting overcharged for your amusement. Nor do I relish the idea of the hangover, morning after.”

“Aw, why would you even say such a thing, Prowler?” Sideswipe grinned again, dental plates flashing. “That isn’t what I was thinking at all!”

“No, of course not.” Prowl slid the cube in front of the other mech. “You drink it. _I_ will go get my mid-grade.” The black and white stood, starting off to do exactly what he’d intended… And then paused, a few steps from the dispenser. 

“Hello, Prowl.”

“Hello, Wheeljack.” Any residual amusement he _might_ have had from his interaction with Sideswipe evaporated instantly, replaced with a sudden feeling of anticipation.

“If you have a moment, I would like to discuss the scheduling for the Science Division with you.” The inventor was standing rigidly, legs spread in a firm stance, and arms crossed.

“I’m sure it can wait until morning, Wheeljack. I’m off-duty, and would rather not spend my free time discussing work.” He began to edge around the other, still meaning to get his cube.

“See, that’s the problem; I haven’t been able to spend _my_ free time doing what _I_ enjoy.” Stepping back into the police car’s path, Wheeljack effectively blocked the other’s movement.

“Oh?” Prowl’s doors had made a few slight upward-twitches since the inventor’s appearance, but now were steadily making their way to full flare. “Well, I am sorry to hear that, but again, I’m certain that it can wai-…”

“ _No_. We are going to talk about this _right now_.” Wheeljack stepped forwards, entering Prowl’s personal space and leaning in. “And _you_ are going to stop acting like such a pretentious aft!”

Prowl stiffened, fists clenching and optics narrowing. “There is no need for _name_ -calling. I am certain that we can come to an understanding without such rudeness.”

“See, I’m not really sure that we _can_.” His arms dropped to his sides, fingers tightly curled. “Ya see, _I_ had a good idea. _You_ didn’t like it, even though Optimus did. But since _you_ weren’t happy about my invention getting the go-ahead, _you_ decided to make sure that I couldn’t build it, anyway!”

There was a distinct urge to take a step backwards, but that was as good as admitting defeat, so Prowl stood his ground, even leaning forward a bit, himself. “I am afraid that you are mistaken, Wheeljack. The schedule has been arranged very precisely to allow for the most efficient use of time by all those on base, according to those tasks which need to be full-…”

“Enough with the slag,” he interrupted again. “You know just as well as I do that you’re having a hissy-fit about _losing_ , so you messed up the times so I never had anybody to work with!”

“I – did – not – _lose!_ ” Prowl hissed through clenched dentals. “There was nothing _to_ lose, in the first place – no battle, no game, nothing! You got your approval for your silly little… pet _project_ , and I went back to keeping this place running smooth-…”

“Ha! So that’s what it is? You’ve got some sort of superiority complex? Geez, Prowl, I didn’t realize you were _that_ much of a head-case.”

Prowl slowly took a deep intake, chest expanding as he practically vibrated with suppressed emotion, before… “WILL YOU STOP INTERRUPTING ME, YOU DISCOURTEOUS, ILL-MANNERED BRUTE!? SHUT _UP_ , AND LET ME FINISH MY SENTENCES!”

A number of the Rec Room’s occupants had taken notice of the argument prior to this and paused to watch in amazement at the display, but at that last _roar_ from the normally stoic SIC, all heads turned to stare, the entirety of the room falling silent.

Sideswipe slowly stood from his chair, an uncharacteristic frown on his face with his brows furrowed. Prowl screaming angrily at someone was _not_ normal. Especially considering that this was Wheeljack, kooky-but-fun inventor extraordinaire. ‘Jack got along with _everybody_ , but he looked just as ticked right now.

Both mechs were glaring daggers at each other, their entire frames tense and subtly trembling with the force of their fury. He could even hear their engines thrumming, both mechs’ cooling fans whirling loudly in an effort to expel the excess heat. Damn, they must be _really_ slagged at one another to be that worked up.

It was kind’a hot, actually. What with Prowl’s wings flared high and wide, shaking right along with the rest of him; not to mention that snarl on his face, showing off the white dental plates. Just seeing him showing an actual _facial expression_ was almost an Event unto itself.

Sideswipe even thought that ‘Jack looked pretty interesting, and he just wasn’t a mech the warrior normally _thought_ of like that. ‘Jack was… well, he was sweet, fun-loving, and kind’a crazy; always up for a good time and a laugh. Now? Now, the mech was nearly mirroring Prowl’s aggressive stance, his own little pseudo-wings raised in ire, looking like he was ready to jump the Datsun and pound some dents into him.

However, that was beside the point. Or maybe that last part _was_ the point. Either way, this needed to stop before somebody finally snapped and decided to throw a punch. Starting fights with teammates was _his_ job. Well, his and Sunstreaker’s. Whatever.

Wheeljack actually leaned backwards a bit at Prowl’s outburst, blinking in suppressed shock. Then, behind the mask and unseen by anyone, he _grinned_ , although he couldn’t place _why_ , since he was still pissed. “I’ll shut up as soon as you say something worth listening to, you sanctimonious prick!”

“You’ll shut up when I _tell_ you to shut up, He Who Explodes With Disturbing Frequency!” Prowl took a step forward, closing the space between them just a little bit more, and then practically jumped out of his own armor when a large hand dropped onto his shoulder. Startled, the officer jerked to one side, optics wide, before he realized that it was just Sideswipe. His intakes were ragged and he didn’t relax, but the anger dissipated a little bit, remembering just where he was and who he was surrounded by.

“I think you two should take some time to go cool off, hmm?” Sideswipe’s smile was blindingly cheerful, but there was that bit of edge to it that reminded everyone of what he did to Decepticons in battle.

The other hand landed on Wheeljack’s shoulder, and the Lancia tensed further, although he seemed to be remembering things like ‘public places’ and ‘witnesses’ again, too. “Y-…yeah. Guess I’ll just… Yeah.” A quick parting-glare was directed at Prowl, before the stiff-looking inventor whirled around and exited.

False smile dropping and replacing itself with an exceptionally wry smirk, the melee fighter turned back to Prowl. “Sure you don’t want that high grade, now?”

The tactician shot the larger mech an ugly look, then swept out of the Rec Room, looking oddly regal with that high-headed, flared-wing posture.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metren = 1/2 ft. (15cm); approximately equivalent to an inch (2.5cm) for Cybertronians  
> Vorn = Approximately 83 Earth years  
> Megacycle = 1 hour  
> Cycle = 1 minute

Wheeljack went for a drive; good way to expend pent-up energy, relieve stress, and generally have a fun time. High speeds and hair-pin turns: what more did a performance vehicle-mode need? (Besides Science, but he’d learned that that was more of a ‘Wheeljack’ necessity than anything.) By the time he was done it was quite late, and the Lancia was filthy, but in a considerably better mood. 

The plan was to wash up, get some energon, and go to recharge. He would tackle the ‘Prowl Problem’ again tomorrow. However, this particular issue appeared to be determined to not allow any of his plans to go, well… according to plan.

Prowl was already there. He didn’t appear to have noticed him, yet, but he was still _there_ in the washracks. Fragging aft-hat was busily scrubbing himself down, back facing the entrance. And under cold water, for some reason, by the looks of it; he was hunched over and shivering. Actually, more than shivering – the mech was outright shaking, with one hand braced against the wall, using the other to rub down his front. Actually, wait…

 _Waaaait_ …

The tactician whipped his head up and half-spun at the sound of a high-performance engine revving hard somewhere behind him, too surprised to remove the hand around his erection or think about keeping it from view. His optics widened comically after a brief moment before his face turned _pink_ , energon flushing just under the surface of thin, white derma-plating to allow the color to just barely show through.

Wheeljack simply stared for a short bit. Then he cleared his vocalizer, determined to keep his engine from revving again (obviously, he was just still worked up from his drive – _obviously_ ), and crossed his arms. “You could at least have the decency to do things like that in your own room.”

Lips pursing minutely, the police car stood up straight and planted his fists on his hips. “I was under the impression that anyone not on night-shift was already in their personal quarters. If you have a _problem_ with it, though, you can always leave and come back once I’m done.”

The inventor couldn’t _quite_ keep his optics from slipping down to the perfectly-visible interface equipment every few seconds. Especially since Prowl seemed to be insisting on standing like that with it jutting out in front of him.

This did not go unnoticed, and Prowl leveled an irate look at the other mech before pointedly reaching down, shoving the erection back under its panel, and clicking the thing closed. That _had_ to be uncomfortable, but the still faintly-blushing mech didn’t seem visibly bothered. “Better?” he asked, in a sweetly acidic tone.

Wheeljack shifted uncomfortably before catching himself, and cleared his vocalizer again. “Uh. Yeah…”

“Did you have a reason for coming in here, or was it simply to bother me?”

“I was just gonna clean up a bit.” Regaining himself, he gestured towards the crusty splatters of mud and dust on most of his frame.

“Well, then far be it from me to stop you.” Turning his nose up faintly, Prowl spun back to his own shower, determinedly ignoring the other mech’s presence.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable for several reasons, Wheeljack selected a shower on the adjacent wall. After several cycles of the only sound being the pattering of water on metal frames, he spoke. “You really are an inconsiderate jerk, you know,” came the casually stated comment. Not turning to look, he had no idea if the other mech had reacted, because there was no verbal answer. So he continued. “It took me a while, I’ll admit, but I’ve finally reached the same conclusion everybody else on the entire _Ark_ came to ages ago: You are a complete and utter prick.”

There was a pause, then: “And why, exactly, do you think that?”

Wheeljack smiled beneath his mask at the tone – he’d hit a nerve. “Oh, just that you seem to consider yourself better than everyone around you. Even Prime, apparently, isn’t good enough. After all, despite him giving me the go-ahead, you weren’t going to just stand by and do nothing when you’d already said ‘no’.” The noise from the other’s shower abruptly shut off, and the inventor finally turned to look, his rather manic grin widening at the obvious fury on Prowl’s face. The mech was slightly hunched forwards, stance wide and one hand braced on the wall where he’d slammed the off-switch, the other clenched into a fist at his side. Wheeljack’s engine gave a repressed rumble at the image.

“Do _not_ presume to know _anything_ about me.” The tactician’s voice was a low growl. “As for Optimus,” the mech took a deep intake, trying to calm down, “I would not have needed to… minimize the possible damage incurred from his perhaps… overtly good-natured decisions, had not you gone _running_ to him like a sparkling who’s been denied an energon treat from one creator and so asks another, whom he knows is more likely to permit the indulgence.”

Optics narrowed, the inventor shut off his own shower, posture deceptively calm. “I’d hardly call an invention that cuts down on power-usage an ‘indulgence’. Have you forgotten so soon what it was like on Cybertron, when a single drop of energon was considered worth fighting over?”

“While I consent to that being a legitimate concern, at present it is not worth risking the safety of our home or our _lives_ over.”

“For the last time, it is _completely_ safe!”

“And _I_ say that’s a load of slag!”

Finally having enough, Wheeljack lunged at the taller mech. Prowl ducked under his outstretched arm, then surged forwards, slamming his shoulder against the scientist’s side. In the same instant, Wheeljack wrapped both hands around the bottom-edges of the mech’s doors. As they fell, he used this as leverage to roll the other mech onto his back, shifting his hold at the same time to the mech’s shoulders. Prowl thrashed, kicking out and grabbing at the inventor’s frame. Wheeljack, while marginally shorter, was more solidly-built and _heavy;_ unfortunately, Prowl understood leverage.

The next moment saw the Lancia on his back, with knees tightly gripping his hips to keep from being dislodged, delicate-looking but strong hands gripping his wrists, and… Prowl biting his neck?

Wheeljack took note of the loudly purring engine pressed to his chest. Just above the mask, twin orbs of light narrowed. “You sick freak. You’ve been getting off on this the whole time.”

The dental plates dug in harder, sending sharp pain into the cabling, before releasing. “Don’t even _pretend_ that you aren’t just as affected,” was the caustic reply.

With no small amount of mortification, he finally acknowledged the answering rumble his own engine was giving. And yup, the pressure building from within his codpiece rather nullified any attempt he could make to convince himself that he was still revved up from the drive. “…Shut up.”

“You wouldn’t shut up for me. Why should I extend _you_ such a courtesy?” 

Wheeljack thought for a moment, which became approximately five times more difficult when Prowl decided to start sucking on the spot he’d bitten. “Because… _nn_ … turnabout is fair play.”

The Datsun had about half a second to ponder this, right before the mech beneath him twisted, a knee coming up to jab him in the side. Prowl jerked upright, and the leg hooked around his chest, ankle catching under his chin, tugging him backwards. Rolling away to one side, Prowl made to get back to his pedes, but then a solid weight came down right between his doorwings, making him ex-vent with an involuntary ‘oof’ as he dropped chest-first to the wet floor.

“Hm, now what do we have here?”

Prowl didn’t bother turning his head to see what the mech was doing, concentrating instead on trying to squirm free, using his legs to try and push away. Then he paused, blinking, and started to laugh. When the inventor spoke again, Prowl could _hear_ the confused – and irritated – frown.

“What’s so funny?”

“You put too much stock in rumors and urban legends.” The SIC was smiling imperiously as he said this.

“Hmph.” Scowling, Wheeljack, swept his hand across the leading edge of one doorwing, trying again. “So they’re _not_ sensitive? Thought Ratch said somethin’ about sensory sweeps…” The last was muttered quietly, but it was heard, nonetheless.

“Oh, they’re functional, yes. My climate-detection sensors and spatial-recognition hardware are centered there, but really – if they were as sensitive to tactile stimulation as so many mechs seem to think they are, they would be an enormous liability on the battlefield.” Pleased with this small, unexpected victory, he began struggling again.

Wheeljack scowled and dug his knee into the mech’s back harder, making him cringe and momentarily pause in his efforts. “Well, what about here?” Moving his hands inwards, the scientist dug both thumbs into the hinges keeping the wings attached. The scowl went away, replaced with a _very_ pleased smirk when this gained a choked sound and a light arch of the other mech’s back. “Ah, much better.”

Prowl squirmed, gasping lightly as the digits wormed their way deeper into the gap between plates. “St-stop that…” A small, rather embarrassing little mewl escaped his vocalizer, and he immediately bit down on his lip afterwards.

“And why would I want to do such a thing? You’re much prettier when you’re submissive; far more pleasant than listening to you back-talk.”

White lips twisted into an unhappy expression even as his optics squinted shut at the pleasurable sensations, and then he growled, shoving himself upward hard with both his arms and legs. The desired result was achieved, and he tackled the momentarily off-balance engineer.

They tussled for a couple cycles, neither mech seemingly able to get the upper-hand this time as they rolled. Water splashed up when they landed in puddles, their limbs tangled, fingers scrabbled at slightly-slippery bodies, and Prowl ended up biting again – whatever happened to be near his mouth at any given time, whether it be shoulder, chest, or hand. Wheeljack found himself a little disturbed by how much he was enjoying it.

Eventually, the inventor ended up on top again, straddling the mech’s waist this time, just below his bumper. One couldn’t really say it was a win, though, because while he perhaps had the advantage due to his position relative to the other, Prowl had wrapped his legs around the inventor’s torso from behind, curling his body to do so, and was attempting to yank him back down onto his back. The only reason it hadn’t worked, yet, was because Wheeljack was using the underside of the downed mech’s bumper as a grip, and because Prowl was apparently finding it difficult to concentrate because said bumper had fingers twining into the circuitry it hid, tugging and twisting.

However, Wheeljack faltered when slim, tapered digits suddenly dug into his hip-seams, stroking firmly at the hydraulic cabling there. It was just enough for his grip to slip, and he grunted when his upper-back hit the floor. Forced into an arched position by his hips still being on top of the other mech, he suddenly found that he could no longer move his legs. He wasn’t designed to bend in such a way, and his legs, folded on either side of the Datsun with the tops of his pedes resting flat on the floor, refused to do more than twitch. Which they did an awful lot of in short order, because there was a hand sliding smoothly up and down his bangled thighs, moving in a vaguely-circular motion from the inner to outer portion of one, then switching to the other.

Prowl had sat up, one hand braced behind himself due to not quite being able to sit up _straight_ , and was smirking down at him with half-shuttered optics. “You know, about the submissive thing? I am beginning to see the appeal, but I think I like it better with you down there. Now, if only we could do something about that _mask_ , you would make quite the pretty picture.”

Growling, Wheeljack grabbed the other’s legs, still wrapped around his chest just under his arms, and tried prying the locked ankles apart, but a moment later he ended up clinging to them instead, his back protesting as it arched just a little further. Oh, that was just _cheating!_ He made a broken sound as the thumb currently jabbed into the seam between thigh and pelvis wiggled a little further in, the remaining fingers of that hand toying with the upper thigh. Then the thumb stroked… _something_ – the outer-casing of his interfacing-equipment, maybe? – inside him, and he keened.

“Yes, _quite_ the pretty picture.”

Wheeljack almost didn’t bite back the sound of disappointment in time when the hand removed itself. However, it was apparently only so that Prowl could switch arms – the position was likely putting a bit of strain on the one supporting his upper-body – because about two seconds later the same thing was being done to the opposite side. He could feel the heat building wherever their frames were in contact (Wheeljack’s chest to Prowl’s legs, aft to pelvis, inner-thighs to hips…), and it was making it even harder to concentrate; the contrast with the cold, wet flooring below was almost unpleasant, but mostly just serving as yet another thing his processors needed to filter out in order to concentrate.

The thumb scraped gently across the interface-housing again. Wriggling at the intrusive-but-fantastic sensation, the engineer forcibly exchanged his moan for a growl, and yanked at the ankles again. Despite the – ahem – ‘distraction’, he managed to pull them apart and, with some difficulty, shove himself upwards and twist, all in one motion. His legs came unbent, stressed cabling and joints practically sighed in relief, and he succeeded in kicking out the arm Prowl was leaning on. The mech’s head smacked onto the floor and he looked dazed for a split-second. Wheeljack did not waste the opportunity.

Before Prowl had realized what happened, his arms were stretched above his head and pinned to the floor with both of the engineer’s hands, and knees were pressed tightly to either side of his upper arms, preventing him from bending his elbows to gain leverage. Even if he was flexible enough to try the same trick as before – wrapping his legs around Wheeljack’s chest – and he wasn’t sure he was, since the mech was sitting on the hood of his alt-mode this time rather than his belly, he wouldn’t have been able to get enough force behind it from this position to actually pull the mech backwards.

“Speaking of ‘pretty pictures’, I rather like where your face is right now.” Wheeljack was referring to the fact that his interface panel was presently situated right beneath the prone mech’s chin. “But with your penchant for biting, I don’t think I’ll risk it.” Chuckling at the glare that comment earned him, the Lancia pressed a little tighter with his knees, transferred both of Prowl’s wrists to his left hand, and pressed his newly-free right hand to one of the officer’s palms.

Looking startled, the Datsun shot the mech above him an accusatory look. “You have a subspace-opener?” Such a mod was rare, but the oddly-intrusive sensation of his private subspace being _rummaged_ through was impossible to mistake.

“Mhmm. Comes in handy every once in a while.” He seemed a bit distracted, apparently searching for something specific. “Now, I _know_ you keep it with you… Where are you hiding-? Aha!”

Prowl looked stricken when Wheeljack ‘pulled’ the pair of high-level energon-cuffs out. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he hissed through his dentals, suddenly thrashing all the more intensely for the threat of restraint. If he let the mech get those on him, that would be _losing_.

Ignoring the command, Wheeljack hooked a data-jack from his left forearm into the cuffs and hummed faintly as he set about changing the lock protocols. A moment later, he smiled brightly – and even with the mask, it was obvious that was what he was doing – snapping first one cuff on, then the other. Next he pulled something from his _own_ subspace and secured it to the short cable between the cuffs, then pressed the little thing to the floor.

Prowl snarled as his arms were released, tugging viciously. He couldn’t get his wrists more than a metren above the floor, though; the gadget Wheeljack had attached to the cuffs was apparently a magnetic lock, automatically syncing to the specific alloy of the floor and firmly connecting the restraints to it. He was _stuck_.

“Here we go. No more underhanded maneuvers to get the jump on me.” Looking quite pleased with himself, Wheeljack straightened his back and casually placed his hands on his hips, observing the mech below him with a challenging gleam in his optics.

Prowl arched his back, yanking at his wrists, though it did him no good. “ _You’re_ one to talk; hacking into my subspace, stealing my property, and _locking me to the Primus-damned floor!_ ”

“‘Hacking’? Oh, that’s not hacking. _This_ is hacking.” With that, the same cable he’d used on the cuffs was promptly plugged into a medical port at the base of Prowl’s neck, and the mech squawked in protest, immediately beginning to rattle off all sorts of regulations that the act of hacking another mech broke. It rather reminded him of Bluestreak, actually, the way Prowl suddenly went off on an unending stream of words. “Oh, hush – I’m not doing anything like what _you’re_ thinking of.” He added in a condescending little pat to the mech’s helm.

Optics narrowed and lips curled into a disbelieving frown, Prowl thrashed, trying to dislodge the cable. “If not, then what _are_ you doing?”

Wheeljack’s free hand grabbed the SIC’s chin to keep him from continuing the motion. “Something I think you’ll _like_ , actually. Not that you deserve it. You see, I was rather disappointed earlier…”

He was suddenly made even more suspicious at that. The feeling of something gently shoving aside his firewalls (which he’d _thought_ were top-of-the-line) and going immediately for a very specific set of programs made his optics go wide, though. “What… what do you think you’re…? What are you…?”

The mech currently engaged in altering the input settings and sensornet-to-processor translating programs _on his doorwings_ just chuckled. “Ah, I thought so. You said they were calibrated to pick up your surroundings; well, anything that does that is gonna pick up things _touchin’_ it, too. An’ while I can understand not wantin’ some Decepticon to be able to just grab your wing and twist to reduce you to screaming, I think having an in-built dampener to keep _anything_ very strong from registering is such a waste.” He smirked and disconnected the data-jack when the mech beneath him suddenly gasped, optics rolling backwards a bit and intakes shuddering. The vibration suddenly coursing up between the inventor’s legs from Prowl’s engine kicking into high-gear was an added bonus. “And to think – I’m not even touchin’ ‘em, yet.”

Prowl whined, back arching and legs shifting against the wet floor, which was suddenly registering as almost painfully cold to the appendages attached to his back. The dampener had kept the flood in-check, making sure he was never overwhelmed by too much, simply translating it all into raw data, rather than sensation. Now he felt the tactile input from the cold metal beneath him, the very air-currents moving across the upward-facing surface… and worst of all, he could _feel_ just how worked up the mech on top of him was; he could pick up the heat cascading from the mech, the vibrations from his engine, everything. His CPU was entirely unused to things registering from his doors as anything but plain data, and overwhelming was _exactly_ what this was. He shrieked when the inventor’s hands came down on them, stroking in slow, gentle circles. Apparently the rumors about sensitivity _had_ been true, to a degree. It’s just that Prowl hadn’t known about it.

Wheeljack chuckled, optics dimming at the sight of the tactician’s face; the helm tilted backwards, the jaw dropped and lips quivering, optic-shutters tightly squeezed shut. He could feel him squirming, too. No need to look back to know that Prowl’s legs were now in constant motion, rubbing against themselves and the floor, hips twisting and back arching. However, a change of positioning was in order.

Prowl whined piteously when the hands left his wings, then yelped when he found himself being flipped over onto his front. The space between his wrists was constricted further as the short cable twisted to accommodate, and weight settled onto his aft. Then his world exploded into multi-colored lights as adept fingers traced around the edges of his doors, dipped into gaps and seams, and lightly swept over the flat undersides before repeating on top. He wriggled and writhed, pedes scrabbling for purchase on the floor and finding none.

Above the moaning mess of a mech, Wheeljack found himself revving rather hard at what had become of the stoic tactician. It may not have generally been considered ethical, but he felt that his little alteration to the mech’s sensornet was well worth it. He could easily change the programming back to its original state later, after all. Almost subconsciously, he shifted his pelvis across the mech’s aft, creating delicious friction between the plating.

Decided, he left off the doorwings and lifted himself onto all fours, hovering above the other without touching and bringing his face next to the tactician’s audio-receptor. “Oh, Prowl~,” he purred. He chuckled faintly when all he got was a faint whine. “Come on, now, Prowl… I need you to concentrate for a moment, you little prick.” Oddly, the insult had sounded almost endearing in that tone of voice. Another soft, needy sound was produced, but the Datsun tilted his face to see the inventor, optics dim and glazed-looking. “That’s better. Now… playing around is all well and good, and I do enjoy having you at my mercy, but you need to tell me right now if you _seriously_ don’t want this.” Prowl’s brows furrowed a little, looking confused. Wheeljack got the impression that he was thinking along the lines of ‘Why the frag wouldn’t I want this? Go back to touching me!’ While this amused him greatly… “No, really. While I think you’re a complete jerk, I’m not exactly fond of rape,” his tone was as dry as the desert outside, “so do you want me to fuck you or not, Prowl?”

Thanks to the lack of physical contact, a little bit of awareness was slowly coming back to the mech, and he thought hard for a moment. On the one hand, this was beyond humiliating and under most circumstances he wasn’t really a valve mech; Wheeljack was a glitched, mutinous skidplate of an Autobot, and the slagger was quite possibly only asking him this so that he could throw it back in his face later.

On the other hand, it was pretty obvious he’d lost the battle for dominance some time ago, and if he said ‘no’, it wasn’t like he’d be getting a chance to reverse their positions; he’d probably just get left here, tied up and wanting. Not to mention that the doorwing thing felt _fantastic_ , so he couldn’t really complain too much. And while he wasn’t the type to end up in the berth with a different mech every night (mostly because he usually only bothered to seek physical relations maybe a couple times in an entire vorn), he didn’t feel the need to be in an actual relationship in order to put out. So, turning faintly pink again, he hid his face in his outstretched arms. “Oh, go on, then,” came the muffled answer, and his wings fluttered a bit to punctuate the sentiment. If he was going to be humiliated, at least the crazed inventor knew how to use his hands.

“Wonderful,” came the somewhat sarcastic reply. Scooting backwards, Wheeljack swept his palms over the doors again, smirked when this earned him a sharp buck and a small, squeaky sound, then snagged the mech’s hips and lifted. “I wonder how tight you are,” he absently wondered aloud. “Stuck-up tight-aft like you could probably dent armor-plating.”

Prowl growled and kicked out with one leg, which was promptly grabbed by the thigh and held firmly against Wheeljack’s side. Fingers lightly traced the angles and lines of his aft, then slipped further between his legs to rub the flat of the palm over his interface panel. Not quite able to fight off the moan, it escaped – albeit slightly muffled – through tightly-clamped lip-components, and he felt his optics glitch a bit. He found himself twitching and tense, and after a moment he was moving in counterpoint to the scientist’s ministrations, pressing harder into the hand and unable to stop. It was too hard to think clearly enough _to_ stop.

“What a good little sub you make. If only you were this compliant all the time.”

Hearing the smirk in the mech’s voice, Prowl hissed angrily through his vents and thrashed, but it only lasted for a few seconds, because then he was back to moaning loudly, his leg having been released in favor of fondling his door-hinges again. Primus, he… his whole world narrowed to the sensation of the hands touching him; he couldn’t stop his embarrassing vocalizations, couldn’t resist pressing himself against the mech behind him, couldn’t think about anything but _more_.

“Now, show me what a well-behaved piece of shareware you are and open up your panel for me, hm?”

Somewhere buried underneath the overwhelming sensations, Prowl registered that he’d been insulted. However, more important to his current thought-processes (which consisted predominately of ‘more!’ and ‘harder!’), was the fact that he’d get to overload faster if he did what Wheeljack said. His panel snapped open, and two thick fingers worked their way inside without preamble.

“Hot damn, I was just kidding about the armor-plating comment! Criminy, do you ever let _anybody_ in here?”

The answer, quite simply, was ‘almost never’, and it had been a very long time since the ‘almost’ had last come into play. And in fact, that most recent hadn’t actually been an any _body_ , but rather an any _thing_ which his partner had insisted on putting in there before letting Prowl get down to business. Even that hadn’t been very large, but it _had_ vibrated, which he’d found quite distracting. That is a story for another time, though…

The fingers twisted and wriggled with no small amount of difficulty, and just the two digits alone made him feel like he was filled to capacity. Mind you, they weren’t exactly _small_ digits, but still. When a third tried prodding at his entrance, he was forced to protest. Unfortunately, all he managed to get out of his mouth was a garbled bunch of highly indignant-sounding half-words, followed by a squeak and accompanied by a tight clenching of his valve and a half-sparked attempt at pulling away as the finger managed to slip in up to the first knuckle.

“Fine, fine… I’ll slow down. Probably break my freakin’ hand if I don’t, anyway.” Huffing a bit, Wheeljack withdrew the second and third fingers, and left just the one inside, swirling its way through the lubricant that was building up. After a short while of letting it swish around in the collecting fluids, smearing up across all the interior walls and pulling out to spread it across the opening, he re-inserted the second finger, finding it a great deal easier to scissor and stretch the mech. “I’m still tempted to say you’re a valve-virgin. Are you, Prowl? Am I the first to get into this tight little aft of yours?”

Growling, the officer attempted to pull away again, only to make an embarrassingly high-pitched noise of surprise as he was yanked back by the base of one doorwing. The third finger wedged itself inside and Prowl bucked his hips, vocalizer hissing to static for a brief moment as the hand on his wing started firmly massaging the joint it had just abused.

“You really should try to relax now and again. You’d probably get laid more often if you did. Then again, maybe it’s the other way ‘round… You should get laid more so you can _relax_. Then you wouldn’t get so worked up about things like someone other than you being able to think for himself.”

It took an exceptional amount of effort to get his speech-functions to cooperate, but after a short pause, Prowl managed to express his thoughts. “Stop. _Talking_. And fuck me, already!”

Wheeljack paused and blinked for several seconds, then gave a short burst of laughter. “Ya know. There are several mechs on base who’d probably drop into stasis outta shock if they heard you say that.”

The fingers removed themselves, and there was the soft click of a panel retracting, shortly followed by something hard bumping against Prowl’s entrance. “Mph… You think I care what they think?” He was somewhat ashamed to note that he was already spreading his legs a little farther apart, arching his hips up for a better angle. That didn’t mean he stopped, though, and he was swiftly rewarded with a solid length smoothly entering him, somewhat sluggishly going deeper and deeper until Wheeljack’s pelvic-plating connected with his own.

“Oh, I think you… care quite a bit about what others think.” The inventor’s intakes were strained, now. “It may not be in the same way as, say, Sunstreaker or Tracks, but,” he leaned forwards, flattening his chest to Prowl’s back, “you’re one of the most vain mechs I’ve ever met.”

“I… am not…” Primus, it was hard to think; stretched further than he’d been in deca-vorns, a solid weight against his back with arms wrapped around him, it was all he could do not to scream when Wheeljack abruptly shifted backwards. Every tactile-sensor lining his valve lit up with the movement, and another muffled moan escaped.

“Aren’t you?” Wheeljack slowly shoved back in, every bit of his spike that disappeared a small victory against the tight walls. “Vanity doesn’t… just have to be about… physical appearance, ya know.” His hips came back to rest against Prowl’s, and he could barely contain just how _pleased_ he was with how the frame below him trembled. “You’re proud of your abilities, right? I’ll admit, you’ve got a good basis for that pride.” He liked how Prowl squeaked when he pulled out all in one quick jerk, just the tip remaining inside. “But I’ll also admit that Sunstreaker’s good-looking. Doesn’t mean he should act the way he does.”

Panting hard for several moments, he had to scramble to keep up with the conversation. How had agreeing to interface become a discussion about his faults, anyway? “I believe… I told you… to shut up and shove that spike of yours back _IN!_ ” That last word came out as a yelp, since Wheeljack had brought his hands up to fondle the upper-corners of both wings at once. He _writhed_ at that.

“Fucking you’s fun, but it’d be even better if we can come out of this with you being less of a jerk.”

The twitching continued as long as the fingers were toying with his wings, and he was pretty sure he garbled some sort of reply to that, but it was incomprehensible even to him. He was surprised he’d even understood what the inventor said.

“I’d wait to continue the discussion afterward, but see, then I don’t know if you’d _listen_ to me.” Wheeljack shoved himself back in, and it was his own optics that fritzed out this time. It _was_ getting rather difficult to concentrate on talking; he had to hold himself still, panting hard, before he could continue. “In fact, I’m surprised you’re listening at all. How’ve you managed to not glitch out, yet?” A vague, angry snarl was the only answer, and Wheeljack would’ve rolled his optics if he could spare the effort. “Come on, Prowl – everybody knows you’re glitched. No need to get defensive about it.”

As far as the Datsun was concerned, the only mech he should ever need to discuss the delicate balance between his Logic Matrix and his Battle Simulator with was Ratchet. Anyone else that wanted to bring up the subject could go to the Pit. Wings twitching from irritation this time, he suddenly shoved backwards, impaling himself on the other’s shaft. Tiny fiber-optic explosions appeared in his vision, but he heard Wheeljack groan, felt him clutch tighter; a small victory amidst this defeat.

“Right… right, then – point taken. Less talking, more screwing. You’re askin’ for it, though.” Grinning behind the mask, he braced his legs and moved his body more upright. Letting go of the doors for now, he grabbed the mech’s black-painted hips. “Try not to overload too soon, will ya?”

Prowl was about to retort with something vicious, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything at all when Wheeljack began to pull out and slam back in rapidly. The slick movement robbed him of all speech and coherent thought – what little was left. He’d already been worked up nearly to the brink _prior_ to Wheeljack’s spike entering him. But the inventor was right about one thing – Prowl was unbelievably proud. He didn’t let himself overload until he felt the mech above him shaking, gripping his black hips in a hold that dented. In fact, despite the tight coil of heat in his lower abdomen, the pressure of which had built to an almost painful degree, he didn’t fall over the edge until Wheeljack suddenly slipped both thumbs into his wing-joints again, rubbing firm-but-erratic circles into the circuitry.

Wheeljack grinned – albeit shakily – in triumph as the Datsun screamed, and let himself follow into the white and black’s bliss. Prowl’s still-convulsing form slowly sank down to the floor, chest heaving as his intakes sucked in cool air and his fans whirred loudly. As Wheeljack slipped out of the mech’s port, a thick trail of lubricant followed him. Tiredly, he plopped down next to the other Autobot and just lay there.

After several long cycles of merely recovering, a muffled grumble of “cuffs” made its way out of Prowl’s vocalizer, and Wheeljack began to giggle. He consented, though, and scooted over to unlock his superior officer’s wrists. Prowl proceeded to sluggishly get up to his pedes before tottering to one of the showers. He rinsed his more delicate components off thoroughly before sealing himself back up, turned off the spigot, then swayed towards the door, where he paused and looked back. “I expect my energon cuffs to be reconfigured to their proper settings by noon tomorrow.”

“Schedule?” Wheeljack grunted from his chosen bit of floor.

“…It’ll be fixed first thing in the morning.”

Wheeljack nodded, feeling quite satisfied, and let the other mech leave without further ado. Then he grinned wolfishly, wondering how long before Prowl asked to have his wings changed back to normal…

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a TFAnonKink prompt:  
> http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/3587.html?thread=6233347#t6233347


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